We sang a favorite hymn of mine today, a quintessentially Mormon song (with a gorgeous melody) that we relatively rarely sing:
If you could hie to Kolob in the twinkling of an eye,
And then continue onward with that same speed to fly,
Do you think that you could ever, through all eternity,
Find out the generation where Gods began to be?
Or see the grand beginning, where space did not extend?
Or view the last creation, where Gods and matter end?
Methinks the Spirit whispers, “No man has found ‘pure space,’
Nor seen the outside curtains, where nothing has a place.”
The works of God continue, and worlds and lives abound;
Improvement and progression have one eternal round.
There is no end to matter; there is no end to space;
There is no end to spirit; there is no end to race.
There is no end to virtue; there is no end to might;
There is no end to wisdom; there is no end to light.
There is no end to union; there is no end to youth;
There is no end to priesthood; there is no end to truth.
There is no end to glory; there is no end to love;
There is no end to being; there is no death above.
There is no end to glory; there is no end to love;
There is no end to being; there is no death above.
In the format of the LDS hymnal, the first three verses are given along with the music, and the last two verses are appended afterwards. Which means, in practice, that congregations typically sing the first three verses and leave the latter two alone.
I’ve long thought this division unfortunate, given the way it effectively ends the song — even though race, in this context, almost certainly refers to “the human race,” or even to (as Mormons might say) “the race of Gods and men” — in view of the somewhat awkward Latter-day Saint history with race and the current and understandable American sensitivity to the subject.
It’s understandable, of course. To put it mildly, the lyrics become . . . umm, a bit less varied after the middle of the third verse, and a five-verse song can really cut into the time available for speakers in a sacrament service.
But it was especially awkward today, on the eve of the Martin Luther King holiday, and when, by pure coincidence, the speaker immediately after the hymn was a member of our stake high council — and a black convert from Haiti. (He said nothing about the conclusion of the hymn, and may have paid it no attention.) “Oooh, that was bad,” whispered my wife.
Perhaps we could complain to the ward music chairman, who plainly wasn’t paying attention to the matter when she chose the hymn and failed to insist that we sing all five verses (or something). But a complaint will probably do no good. The ward music chairman is my wife.





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